


changes, and how to make them

by ClassicDazel



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Out of Character, i mean probably, i tried and i don't have self-steem shut up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-06-30 20:20:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15758988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClassicDazel/pseuds/ClassicDazel
Summary: This is a brief story about Richard Simmons, and the week he assessed his whole life thanks to a dumbass he met on a Monday.





	1. an ending

**Author's Note:**

> mood: depressed and angry because my laptop randomly decided to delete ALL THE FUCKING FILES I HAD FOR FANFICS AND STORIES AND I SWEAR I HAD OVER 100K WRITTEN IN THERE AND I ACTUALLY CRIED WHEN I SAW I COULDN'T RECOVER IT.
> 
> and i don't have the emotional strength to try and write everything again, so i guess i will just die?? write new stuff and then die??

“‘S okay?”

The train was peaceful until that moment. The sun was not shining too brightly, hid behind a thin layer of clouds, and it warmed just a little—just enough—the glass of the large window from which Simmons was watching the vast ocean they were going past at full speed, steady and still intimidating, tiny reflections gleaming like diamonds on the surface.

The eyes of the stranger were a piece of the rocks on which the waves broke, and they had the same rocking (no pun intended) of the water—they looked at him, at the landscape, at the seat he had just asked permission for, and also at the book Simmons rested on his lap. Simmons shook his head, and that was enough for him to leave his backpack on the floor carelessly and practically bounce to the empty couch in front of Simmons’. First he was sat appropriately, but then he laid down with his hands on the back of his head and a leg crossed over the other. Simmons looked that act with distrust, knowing nobody was going to tell him off if he didn’t. And he didn’t.

The stranger looked his same age, maybe a year or two older. Simmons wondered if he travelled alone as well, or if he was just taking a break from his family like he surely would have done. Well, he wouldn’t have bothered someone else with his bad manners and shirts of painful bright colours; _but_ he said it was okay, and he was going to pretend it was okay.

“So where are you headed?” he asked in such a casual way Simmons could have ignored it and it wouldn’t have been rude.

“California,” he soon replied. A single rock eye opened to look at him.

“Duh, this train doesn’t go anywhere else. I mean why are you here? Off to see your girlfriend or some dying relative?”

_Why do they have to be dying?_ was the first question that popped up in Simmons’ head, but he had a greater urge to correct him. “No, I’m going to Caltech.”

The stranger seemed confused for a second, as if he had just been talked in a foreign language, but soon enough he made an understanding face and sloppily grinned. “Oh, I should have known. You look like the guys who always got locked up in their lockers in my high school.”

“I was never locked up in my locker,” Simmons protested in defence. (It was hard to convince himself that the reason was not that he was too tall for that).

“Whatever man, I don’t judge.” He shrugged and closed his eyes again. “Everyone said I was a stray bullet, so that’s what I became: I dropped high school, I left home, and now… I don’t know, I go where the wind takes me. College seems fine, though.” There was a brief silence, covered only by the beating of the wheels against the railway. Simmons appreciated then that nobody in the carriage was talking besides them—everyone was sleeping, or reading, or scrolling down their phones. This guy, on the other hand, looked like the kind of people who didn’t even own a phone.

Then he heard a snicker that came from the boy across him, who was frowning to himself. “God, I sound like a fortune cookie.”

Simmons couldn’t help a bittersweet chuckle. He did sound like a fortune cookie. That guy acted exactly like Simmons’ mother did before he abandoned him and his father; moreover, one of the books that presumably encouraged her to leave was titled _Leaf Moved by the Wind_ and it was one of the few belongings she didn’t take with her, as a hint of her sudden abandonment, perhaps. He thought about her mother less and less, but this reminded him of the questions he would ask himself every day in the first few months. _Where is she? Is she fine? Is she happy?_ She never sent postcards or letters, and Simmons never knew if that was a good sign or not.

“I’m going to San Diego; the beaches look awesome, dude.” That voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

Simmons wasn’t surprised. A guy like him didn’t belong to a city like Pasadena, let alone to a university: brown skin, long, curly hair that looked way too inconvenient, and a shirt with a flower pattern and bermuda shorts—and it’s not like he had the body of a surfer, or a swimmer, or any kind of athlete, but he belonged to the beach, that was clear.

Suddenly, a thought occurred to him. He looked through the window and blinked before turning his head to the guy, his finger pressed to the glass.

“But we _are_ in San Diego,” he told him.

The guy straightened slowly and looked out the window with round eyes, for the first time taking in the sight of the ocean. “We are?” he wondered.

Simmons put his book on the backpack next to him as he nodded, since he wasn’t planning on reading any more today. “Yeah, we went past the station like ten minutes ago.”

He didn’t move an inch for a moment, but his reaction was not the one Simmons expected, at all: once again, he shrugged and laid down with a sigh that didn’t even sound frustrated. “Well,” he said. And that was it.

Simmons was flabbergasted. He knew it was not his business and that this shouldn’t matter to him, but _this_ attitude was new to him. In this same situation, her mother at least would have spat a ‘fucking bullshit’ or would have blamed his father for not paying attention. And, perish the thought, if this had happened to him, he would have entered into a mute panic state, with that stinging inside of his head he despised so much (the same stinging he felt when he told his father for the first time he was going to Caltech, and those ice cold, harsh eyes of his fixing him).

“Uh… _well_?” he repeats with a dry mouth. “Aren’t you upset?”

“Nah, I will get there from Pasadena. ‘S okay, happens all the time.”

He indeed looked okay. In fact, he seemed even relieved and more relaxed now that he didn’t have to be in constant alert to get off the train. As Simmons stared at him falling asleep—faster than any person he had ever seen—, he thought maybe a nap was not a bad idea; he was quite dizzy from trying to read a whole book in a train in motion. With his backpack on his lap and his arms wrapped around it (because wary didn’t equal untrusting) Simmons closed his eyes and leaned his head against the window. The vibration that was supposedly annoying was actually calming to him.

His eyelids were sticking to each other, his muscles were relaxing and he was swallowing down yawns when he was starting to get sleepy. The ambient sound of the train became a mere white noise, which shattered like glass as soon as he heard:

“Dexter, by the way.”

Simmons pretended he didn’t care about that information, but… Dexter. He would have never guessed it. Years ago, Simmons’ mother told him that there was something very intimate between a person and their name, that it could inspire you, make you feel, make you remember—and it could even have influence in that person’s life. Personally, Simmons didn’t believe that someone’s life would be any different whether called Amadeus or Bob (her mother named him after Feynman, and he admitted a small credit in that), but he did think there were certain names for certain people. Dexter, without going any further, didn’t look like a Dexter.  
Dexter, who laid down in his seat when none else did; Dexter, who left his home to be a leaf moved by the wind; Dexter, who had missed his stop and wasn’t upset at all; Dexter, who was still waiting for him to tell him his name.

“Richard,” he told him. He waited for a beat before adding: “Simmons. Richard Simmons.”

“So…” He stretched the syllable out as much as he could. “Dick?” He was already sighing and half opening his eyes before it was out of his mouth. He could count with the fingers of one hand how many people actually called him Richard, for everyone else he was Dick. And at first he hated it, and he tried everything to get rid of that name—playing along included—but as years passed the nick lost the pejorative hints, so now he just let it be.  
“Dick,” he nodded.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t long until the train arrived at the train station in Pasadena, since the sun had just set when they got there. Simmons woke up and grabbed his luggage a few minutes before the arrival was announced—thanks to his habit of waking up a minute before the alarm went off—, while Dexter, had it not been for Simmons waking him up, would probably have ended up in Sacramento, and he wouldn’t have cared. Many people got off at the same time as they did, to the point that the carriage was left almost empty; Simmons complained about not being able of enjoying that tranquillity.

But he was there. He was finally in Pasadena, in Caltech, he realized few minutes after he got off the train and stood still as if he hadn’t the slightest idea of what to do now. Theoretically, that was not true—he knew where he was headed now, and the quickest and safest route—, but in a deeper sense, he found himself utterly lost. Dexter stood by his side the whole time during his brief mental halt, and Simmons wondered if he was planning on walking with him (as if they were friends or something), or if he was just waiting to say goodbye (as if they were friends or something).

Simmons stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket and cleared his throat, glancing at the way out the station and then looking at Dexter. “Well, I’m, uh, I’m leaving now.” He pursed his lips and blew air out of his nose. “Good luck getting to San Diego and all that.”

Dexter made a weird face, scrutinizing the surroundings of the station with detachment as if he was trying to see something through a very thick mist. “I don’t know, maybe I will stay here for a few days before leaving.” Quickly he looked at Simmons. “I mean, Los Angeles, dude!”

“Uh, yeah,” Simmons replied, pretending he knew what Dexter meant. Hollywood? Celebrities? The outrageously expensive lifestyle?

Dexter grabbed his backpack, which had been stranded on the floor, and turned his back to Simmons, glancing at him over his shoulder. “I will look for somewhere to throw myself for now. Uh, good luck in Nerdtown and all that. Later, Dick.” He waved off and walked away with short, loose strides; it was when Simmons noticed the ridiculous and noisy sandals with which Dexter wanted to reach San Diego, and he stifled a burst of laughter. He almost didn’t care about the mocking tone he had used with his name (had it not been for the middle finger flipping him off). Still, he stared him until Dexter disappeared behind a wall, because he was pondering that was the last thing he was going to see before stepping into his new city—his new life. What a farewell, he thought.


	2. out of range

The stroll to Caltech was as short as Simmons had foreseen, though it seemed to lengthen hours for all the times he stopped to check he was still on the right path and for how slowly he strolled, since he wanted to take a good look of the city that would be his home for the next few years. He wasn’t used to big, cosmopolitan cities, and it’s not like he was scared—not at all, he trembled 80% out of excitement, 20% out of fear—but he knew he was going to have a hard time adapting to this place and its people; he had just seen a woman wearing a bikini under a thick fur coat, and he could assure he was the only one who looked at her twice.

His dorm room was small but pretty comfy. It had two beds, two closets, and two desks and they all were nicely set out so that there was space for students’ own personal effects. Simmons hadn’t brought much decoration with him, though; he just had to put his clothes on the closet, the sheets on the mattress and books and everything else on the desk and he could declare himself officially settled in. He was supposed to have a roommate, but just like Simmons, classes didn’t start for him until next week, until Monday, so it was only understandable he wasn’t there yet. In hindsight, Simmons should have waited a couple of days too. But he had his good reasons, and, well, he was already there, and there was no place for regret now.

Since he couldn’t think of anything better to do for the moment, he sat on the edge of his bed and took off his shoes, sighing of relief. He was hungry, after the whole train trip with no food, but above all he was sleepy (naps on a train barely count as naps, who would have thought?), so, for now, he decided to ignore the fact that the mattress was too hard for his taste and lay down.

He really wanted to fall asleep, but he wasn’t going to allow himself until he did something first. Shit, it was a shame he couldn’t think of anything better to do.

He stood up and grabbed his phone from the desk, and while he was scrolling down his contacts he sat down again with his legs crossed. He stared at the name on the screen for a few seconds. Did he really want to do this? If so, he shouldn’t be shaking or have his heart stuck in his throat, it shouldn’t be so hard. Conversations were easy, you just had to say words in a correct order and with a coherent meaning, and then proceed in keeping of the reply. He could do this. Sometimes analyzing objectively a situation was all Simmons needed to gain confidence.

He pressed the call button. During the constant beeps, he patiently waited, chewing his cheek on the inside and picking on a loose thread of his jeans. After five beeps, he would have hung up had it been anyone else. Simmons resisted the urge. He practically could see him on his mind’s eye with the phone on his hand, gazing at his name on the screen and waiting as obstinately for it to disappear until he ran out of patience, which happened after the fourth beep of the third call. He was some stubborn son of a bitch, but as much as his son was.

He didn’t speak up, but Simmons could hear his impassive breathing. Something caught on his throat (just where his heart was still, thank you) when he heard that; some part of him did not expect he was actually going to answer the call, ever, and being wrong about it didn’t feel as good as Simmons would have wanted.

“Hi, Dad,” he finally said. By experience, he knew he would hang up in ten seconds if he didn’t talk. He was almost impressed by how loud his voice was against the silent room, which grew heavier afterward.

“Richard,” greeted his father’s rough and dry voice, the fruit of a lifetime of smoking.

Simmons inhaled sharply. “I… I just got here. The trip was fine.” There was no reply, beyond the creak of the old leather couch yielding to the weight. “And—” He coughed and corrected his squawk. “And, how are you—?”

“Fine,” he replied, before ending the call more abruptly than it seemed possible. Each following beep felt like a needle to the chest, and Simmons suffered each and every one until his arm gave in and he let the phone fall on the sheets.

 _Fuck_ . _He fucked up. Fuck. He always fucks up. Fuck, fuck. He can’t get a fucking word said right. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck..._

But what was he fucking expecting? They were not on the best terms when Simmons left, exactly. His father never wanted him to go to college, and the disputes about the issue were many, and long and way too constant. He wanted his son to follow in his footsteps and enlist the army because in his opinion that was what demarcated real men, and if Simmons hadn’t gotten a scholarship, he would still be stuck in a house that stunk of cigars and cheap whisky. Unironically, he didn’t miss the smell.

He let himself fall on the not-so-hard-now mattress and put his glasses aside in order to cover his eyes with his forearm—the switch was too far away and he was so tired he couldn’t even change his clothes. As a consequence, he dreamt about his steel clothes dragging him into the depths of the ocean.

 

* * *

 

This time he was able to rest a few hours. His quite feline reflexes woke him up again as soon as he felt his phone buzzing against his thigh. And it was so effective as if he had been thrown a bucket of freezing water. Even the feeling that he was going to spit his heart out and the buzzing in his head were the same. He unthinkingly took the phone and without even looking at the time or the name he answered the call with something that sounded like but was not entirely a ‘hello’. The part of him that was still half-asleep was trying talk the other half-lucid part into believing that this was a dream, that there was no way his father—Mr. ‘a dislocated shoulder is no reason to race to the hospital, man up son’—was willing to apologize or at least hold a normal conversation. In fact, Simmons was already pinching himself unwittingly.

“Dick?”

Simmons frowned and now he had to check the number on the screen, mainly because there were two things that did not fit together: first, his father never called him Dick, second, he was almost sure that was not his voice. It was an unknown number, but still, he recognized the voice. Forgetting it was a challenge.

“Uhh… D-Dexter?” he ventured.

“Yup.”

“What’s wrong—?” Wait,” Simmons took a deep breath and thought his question through again, “how did you get my number?”

“Oh, that, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah…” he lowered his voice with each ‘yeah’ until it became a whisper. “You see, hmm, I took your phone and wrote down your number while you were asleep.”

Simmons clenched his fist against the sheets. “You _what_?! Why?! What’s wrong with you?!”

“Hey, calm down, will you?” Dexter said slowly, raising his voice much higher than Simmons; he guessed Dexter was outdoors. Then he felt curious about what time it was: half past two in the morning. An hour more than reasonable to call a stranger, he mentally shouted.

“No, I won’t!” he retorted. “What’s your problem?!”

“You are the only person I barely know in this whole fuckin’ state, okay? And I wasn’t even planning on calling you like ever, but I seriously need help.” Simmons growled, his fingers dangerously close to ending the call. “Please?” he insisted a second later. “I wouldn’t call if this wasn’t an emergency, man.”

Simmons sighed and put on his glasses again. “What do you want?” he gruffly asked. By any means that meant he was going to help him out, right?

“I’m sending you my location,” Dexter replied; he sounded pleased with himself, and that didn’t work in his favour. “I just need you to come over, please.”

He hung up without further ado, leaving a ‘and what if I don’t’ hanging from Simmons’ mouth. If there was something he hated was that people cutting him off, which had already happened twice in two hours. Was it him? Was it his way of speaking?

This is the thing: Simmons didn’t think of himself as a bad person, not at all; well, he was no saint, but at least he was not bad. Whenever someone asked him for help he felt almost obliged to comply, even if that help was tedious or hurt him just like some classmate who didn’t want to ruin her manicure carrying three boxes full of microscopes. And right now, Simmons had two options: he could stay in the safety of his room, go to sleep again and carry on with his life, _or_ he could meet the demand of a guy he met for ten minutes in a train and face the dangers of the night in the city. On top of that, according to Dexter’s location, he was in a park. Simmons nearly burst into laughter when he weighed his options. How could he turn down this offer?

 

* * *

 

Turns out he couldn’t.

It was nearly three in the morning when Simmons got to the park. He wore the hood of his jacket to shield himself from the cold and to hide from… well, from someone, from anyone. Pasadena was a big city, and big cities were active 24/7. However, there was not a single soul in that park. The only thing he could do to ease the gloomy silence (and keep his heels from turning around on their own) was hum to himself. The pop song he heard from a room when he arrived at Caltech was the first that came to mind. When he caught sight of Dexter, he was on a lonely bench under one of the few streetlights that didn’t flicker. Simmons abstained from grabbing his attention from where he stood; the closer he got, the more he could make out he was not alone (which made him want to stop and leave while he could, and this time the hums did nothing)—sat next to Dexter there was a man wearing red. They were not talking, or interacting whatsoever, but they both seemed tired and bored of being there.

“Hey Dick,” Dexter greeted him a few meters from the bench. Even if he didn’t sound agitated before, Simmons thought he would have at least a worried face. “Thanks for coming.”

Simmons nodded in his direction. “Dexter. What’s the matter?” he asked. Straight to the point. He was tired and bored of being there already. “You said it was an emergency.”

Dexter grinned and tilted his head towards the man on his left, which was staring at Simmons with round eyes. “This is Luke,” he said. Simmons took a moment to try and think of a good reply. He never got one.

“Uh… Hi, Luke…” he hesitated.

“He’s a pizza delivery guy,” Dexter went on. He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “This stupid rule says he can’t give me the pizza until I pay him, but turns out I don’t have any money left. So…” He waved a finger between Simmons and Luke. “Could you…?”

Simmons’ eyes went so wide his head began to hurt, although that may have been all the blood that went there all of sudden. He opened his mouth to shout something, closed it, pointed at Dexter, took a deep breath and blew air through his nose.

“You— You stole my number,” he started very slowly, hoping but not expecting Dexter would entirely comprehend, “you called me at 2 AM, you got me out of bed, and you made me come here _so I could pay for your fucking pizza_?!” he yelled. His voice scared away a cat that was ruminating half a sandwich on the ground. His face was flushed, he knew; but if Dexter made a comment, a single gesture, Simmons was going to turn around and leave, fuck explanations.

“If you put it like that, it sounds worse than it really is,” Dexter mumbled, eyes fixed on the lonely sandwich so as not to burn with the green fire of Simmons’ eyes. “But yes, basically.”

The delivery man coughed and drew an attention it was obvious he did not want. “If it makes you feel better,” he said, “I told him it was a dumb idea—”

“You shut up!” Simmons snapped back. With quick and sporadic movements, he reached for his wallet in the back pocket of his jeans and gave the guy fifteen dollars. “Keep the change,” he grumbled. Luke nodded in gratitude and strode away. Now it was just a hungry guy, an angry guy, and a pizza.

Dexter’s mouth was already watering as he put the cardboard box on his lap, but Simmons was fast on snatching it away. He sat on the bench as well, as far away as possible from the whining boy.

“Hey, what are you doing?” he inquired, suddenly as annoyed as Simmons was. “That’s my pizza.”

Still frowning and clenching his teeth, Simmons cocked an eyebrow. “It is? I think _I_ paid for it, and I’m starving too, so fuck off.” He kept staring at Dexter—and the expressions of betrayal, disappointment, and grief crossing his face—with narrowed eyes as he opened the cardboard and took the first bite not even bothering to check what kind of pizza it was. He made a weird face as well when he tasted garlic, but he didn’t stop eating out of spite.

“I only came because you said it was an emergency, you asshole,” he said with a full mouth.

Dexter wrapped his arms around his rumbling stomach and leaned forward, glancing at a vague point in front of him. “The pizza was getting cold, it _was_ an emergency.” He looked over at Simmons for a second and then focused on the nothing opposite him. “And are you going to sit there, eating right in front of my eyes as a revenge?”

“Exactly.”

“And what if I just get up and leave?” Simmons guessed that wasn’t just a remote hypothetical idea, since he already had his hands on his knees to get up.

Simmons made a helpless noise and shrugged. “I might change my mind and share this with you. Are you willing to take the chance?”

Dexter sighed and threw him a look that was, at the same time, interested and indifferent. “Are you going to share that?” he wondered, rather than requested.

That made Simmons stop chewing, and moving overall. He made eye contact with Dexter, pulling a smirk out of him which only made Simmons’ blood boil, as if he were a cop and Dexter a guy who wanted to get rid of a speeding ticket.

And, just like those times when Simmons’ mother flattered an officer with more libido than sense of justice when she deliberately skipped traffic lights in red, Simmons clenched his eyes shut and gave in.

With strength and rancor, he left the cardboard between them both. Dexter celebrated with a snicker and a mouthed ‘fuck yeah’ before attacking the pizza; such bliss and pleasure brushed the edge of indecency.

“I can’t believe you really don’t have any money,” Simmons said as he reached out his arm to grab a second slice.

“For now,” Dexter immediately chided. “Tomorrow I will call my sister and she will put some money into my account.” Simmons wasn’t sure if he should have listened to the last part, but then Dexter muttered under his breath, “I just hope my mother doesn’t notice yet I’m skimming part of her subsidy.”

Simmons used the brief pause to check the time. While it was true he had nothing to do tomorrow (or all week), three in the morning was a good hour to go to bed. Many people changed their habits when they fled the nest, but Simmons didn’t want to be one of those people. He wasn’t a big fan of changes, whether big or small. He hoped eating pizza at this hour in a park with a stranger didn’t become a tradition, of course.

“And where are you going to spend the night, then?” he suddenly felt like asking, for no apparent reason beyond ten seconds of silence.

“Well, you’re now sitting in my bed, so uh, y’know, don’t leave any crumbs.”

Simmons was about to take a bite, but he pulled back to speak and look at Dexter. “You’re kidding.”

“What?” he exclaimed defensively as he shrugged. He patted the wood of the bench like it was a good racehorse. “It’s horizontal and large enough, and I have slept in worse.”

“But,” Simmons looked at the same bench from a point of view entirely different, “it’s cold, and dangerous. You could be robbed.”

“I’m sure all the bandits in Pasadena are yearning to steal my underwear.”

“Or killed.”

“Oh no, I hope the squirrels take pity on me!” he cried out with more sarcasm than necessary.

Simmons huffed and rolled his eyes. “Whatever, it’s not like it is my problem.”

Noticing the patronizing tone Simmons couldn’t help, Dexter groaned and let his head fall to the ground. “Look man, unless you have a better idea—or a better place to stay—don’t judge me.”

For the second time, Simmons froze on the spot, almost choking on the food going down his throat. He squeezed his tight—it already hurt a little from before—and cursed himself for not being able of keeping his mouth shut. He threw his head back and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Son of a bitch,” he whispered.


	3. the shopping cart anecdote

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> even i am surprised i'm still going on with this the fuck

There was something bothering Simmons to irrational measures, something that was making him digging his nails on the palm of his hand and re-reading the same paragraph over and over because he just couldn’t catch on. It was not the weird and irregular rustle the ceiling fan made, the awful musical taste of his neighbour and his habit of not using earphones, nor the fact that the author of the book he was reading wrote shitty endings. No, it was the hoodie; the orange hoodie squeezed into a ball that was on the bed next to his—lonely, untouched. It was its simple existence what bothered him.

The previous night, Simmons did several things he always thought he would ever do, starting with going to a park late at night to pay for a stranger’s pizza, eating aforesaid pizza with aforesaid stranger, inviting aforesaid stranger to spend the night over at his spare bed, pillow talking (like, the general concept; Simmons had never done that, even if it was such a transcendental conversation in which Dexter did almost all the talking) and, the worst of all, waking up at nearly noon.

The most surprising part? When he got up, Dexter was already gone. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t leave a note or a message thanking him (‘thanks for not letting me die of pneumonia out there’? No?). The only thing that confirmed his presence in the room was the orange hoodie he left on the mattress. How was Simmons supposed to take that? Was Dexter that clumsy or he left it as some kind of gift? Should he give it back or keep it? Even if he had his qualms about the first option, the truth is he would never wear the hoodie if he kept it, it was way too big for him and it smelled like Dexter—it smelled like a mixture of every condiment ever known.

He could always text him. Talking to Dexter two days in a row was more than planned, sure, but if he was honest with himself, maybe it was just he had nothing else to do. He sighed as reached for his phone and closed the book. That was a really shitty ending. He looked through his last calls and immediately found Dexter’s number (he did not save the contact, though, because that would have been like admitting they were  _ something  _ of each other. Which was not the case. At all).

Simmons didn’t think twice his first message, and he didn’t even think before sending it.

_ I have your hoodie. _

Then he waited. And while he waited, Simmons wondered if he could ever text any of his parents. His father... well, he just liked it more when people could hear (more like shit his pants over) his voice; and even if he knew what his mother’s number was, would she ever reply? Would she look at his name and be like ‘Dick? Who’s Dick—? Oh, yes, I have a son!’ or something?

At least, Dexter did not ignore him. It didn’t make him feel better.

_ omg please don’t hurt it, it’s too young to die _

Simmons had the loneliness and the good mood to read that with a smile.

_ seriously though keep it _

_ it’s a thank u gift or something _

_ bsides that place gives me the creeps _

_ and it’s too far away _

_ and i’m too lazy _

_ Do you know how far San Diego is? _

_ what _

_ do u think i’m going to walk there? _

_ i thought u were the smart one _

Simmons had always been called ‘the smart one’—by his family, by his classmates, by his friends—and he always reacted the same way: adjusting his glasses. It was a habit he took up as a child, simply because he didn’t know what to say (hell, he still didn’t know). This time, however, Simmons felt as flattered as insulted, which was the only feeling Dexter seemed to pull out of him. Aside from anger, for that matter.

_ Okay but I’m not keeping your damn hoodie. _

_ Where are you? I’m on my way. _

He lied. He had yet to take a shower.

 

* * *

 

It was the first time Simmons saw the city in the daylight, and it was a quite nice change. He almost didn’t care Dexter was a forty minutes walk away. The air felt cleaner and the sun felt brighter; Simmons was not much of an outgoing guy, but he could spend the whole day ambling like this and it would be nice. The fresh breezes were cooling his head down, unlike that stupid noisy fan. He wore Dexter’s orange hoodie tied up to his waist, though he had to tighten the knot every now and then because it kept falling.

Simmons found the hoodie’s owner sitting in the sidewalk, leaning his back on the facade of a five stars hotel. He was almost hidden behind one of the two porcelain flowerpots flanking the red carpet. Simmons could have easily mistaken him for a homeless, but a guy like Dexter was not easy to ignore without taking at least a quick look.

Besides, he yelled at him when Simmons nearly went past him.

“Dick!” he exclaimed, and while Simmons almost tripped by trying to stop and run away at the same time, he truly started to despise his name, even if it were few the people who looked over briefly.

“Shit!” Simmons shouted in a whisper, walking to Dexter. “You almost give me a heart attack, man!” Still grumbling nonsense, he took off the hoodie and threw it to Dexter’s lap. He stared at it, surprised for a second, and with a thankful hum, he squeezed it in a ball so it would fit in his backpack. Then he reached for one of the two plastic cups next to him and offered it to Simmons, whose face was of the one who had just been offered a gun.

“I bought you a smoothie,” he said. “For the inconvenience and all.”

Simmons hesitated, but soon took the gift and took a testing sip. Dexter shrugged and took a mouthful of his almost empty chocolate smoothie.

“I didn’t know what you like, so I bought vanilla.” Simmons made a neutral noise, but he did like vanilla. “So, what do you want to do?”

Suddenly Simmons choked on his drink, which was quite lukewarm at this point. He coughed for almost a minute before answering, “Wh-what?”

Dexter had barely blinked during his nearly-asphyxia, finishing his smoothie and even lighting up a cigarette and blowing the smoke out. “I said, what do you want to do know,” he repeated in a flat voice.

So, he had not misheard that. “I want to…” he mumbled as an automatic reply, “go back to my room—?”

“What?” Dexter cut him off, opening his eyes wider than Simmons thought he was able. “Come on, don’t be a bummer! Let’s go wild!”

Simmons frowned, whether for the smoke or for the smoker’s tone. “I don’t want to go anywhere with you,” he spat. “In fact, I hope this is the last interaction we ever have.”

He blew out thin smoke once again, and behind the curtain, he drew smirk. “Do you?”

“Yes,” Simmons hissed as he narrowed his eyes.

“Come on, do you expect me to believe you came here only to give back a stupid hoodie I stole to some guy?” he inquired, and barely containing his snicker he added: “I mean, who does that?”

Simmons opened his mouth to retort he did that, but Dexter cut him off again—he hoped he would not make a habit out of that.

“ _ And  _ last night you went to that park.”

“Because you said it was an emergency!” Simmons protested, clenching his fists and squeezing the plastic cup.

“But you stayed,” Dexter argued, and that was so fast and sharp Simmons could not think of an immediate response, as he always did, “and you invited me to your place. Admit it!” He tilted his head as he gave a coy smile. “You like me. We’re buddies!”

Simmons sighed. He wanted to be over with this conversation already. “We literally met yesterday.”

The affability in Dexter’s face turned into indolence when he shrugged. “So?”

_ So?  _ There were so many reasons for why that was a problem, and Simmons was so ready and motivated to explain them all… But this time it was Dexter the one who sighed heavily, and that took him by surprise. Dexter rubbed the back of his head, just below his bun, and left the empty cup aside, toying with the now useless straw.

“Look, I have low standards,” he said. “When you’re like me—when you don’t stay in one place for more than a week—you can’t possibly have friends.” His lips curved in something similar to pity—self-pity. Simmons knew that very well. “I am the anecdote guy: people know me, hang out with me for a day, and then I remain in their memory as ‘that guy that one time who went to a playground in a Darth Vader disguise yelling  _ I am your father! _ ’” he intoned, rolling his eyes as well as his head. He ended up staring at the pavement between his legs. “But you know what? Nobody wants to  _ actually  _ befriend that guy. And I— And Dick, you…” He sighed once again and took a deep breath. “You don’t treat me like a one-night stand, but like… well, like the asshole I am.” He chuckled softly. “It feels kind of nice.”

He finally looked at Simmons in the eye. Simmons could check, in a second glance, that Dexter’s eyes actually were more like the chocolate he had just drunk rather than the rocks. He faintly waved the hand he held the cigarette with. “It’s okay. Thanks for the hoodie.” He cleared his throat. “And for the pizza, and for the real bed.”

Simmons wanted to say something else. He wanted to say several things, actually, but since he couldn’t pick just one, he waved goodbye and turned his heels around to walk away. It was okay—no remorse, no hard feelings, no guilt. He didn’t owe this guy  _ anything _ .

And then, four steps later, there was no reason whatsoever to going back to him.

“Did you really do that?” he asked.

Dexter looked up at him and blinked.

“Huh?”

It was the first time Simmons took him aback. He was glad to know he could do it.

“The Darth Vader thing.” He grinned slyly. “That really happened?”

Dexter mimicked his gesture, but wider and bolder. “Yeah dude, it was awesome.” He crushed the cigarette against the floor. “Some kids didn’t even understand the reference, the helmet smelled like shit and someone called the cops but it was totally worth it.”

Simmons covered his mouth with the hand still holding the smoothie, as if his giggle would be less heard that way. “No way. You got arrested?”

He made a weird grimace, as if he had just broken a whole flatware. “I ran away before they arrived, so… yes, I got arrested.”

As Simmons kept laughing at the guy who each time felt more offended, he bent his knees and ran a hand through his hair and face. He went to sit next to Dexter, who, quite shocked (two times in two minutes, he was on a streak), made him a spot. Then he looked at the redhead boy with an arched eyebrow and an inquisitive smirk, until Simmons made something between a sigh and a growl. He rolled his eyes to Dexter, but a bit to himself, too.

“Alright, you win.” He threw his hands up as if surrendering. “I don’t have anything else to do, after all.” Although a part of him, a very tiny, reckless and irresponsible part of him, said he would have stayed even if he had been busy.

“Yeah!” Dexter exclaimed in victory. He grabbed Simmons’ wrist to force a high-five. “Let’s do something stupid!”

“Why stupid?” Simmons asked.

“Because stupid is fun, duh,” he answered. “I, uh…” He looked to both sides and around him, especially at the entrance of the hotel on which they were leaning. “Hey, do you have a suit? Like, a nice suit?” he asked, not looking at him.

Simmons waited for Dexter to glance at his confused expression and explain what he was thinking about, but when that did not happen he replied, “...Yes?”

“Nice, I know what we’re going to do tomorrow.”

“Wait, did I say anything about tomorrow—?”

“Blah blah blah,” Dexter shut him up as he pulled the wrist he still held. “Get up and let’s go.” He lifted the backpack, Simmons and himself up, and then Dexter began to drag him through the street. Simmons had to play basketball with the warm smoothie and a trash can, since Dexter was walking uncharacteristically fast. (Not that he knew his character, just a way of speaking).

“No! Hey!” Simmons tried to stop him. “Where are we going?”

“Just trust me,” he said, as if that was the fortieth time he was asked that.

Simmons bit the inside of his cheek. “I can’t!”

 

* * *

 

That day, Simmons learnt two things about Dexter he believed he had to remember for the future: Dexter loved to eat (rather than a stomach, he had a foundry), and Dexter loved to trick him into doing things Simmons had not agreed to. He was really good at both of those things.

He didn’t trust him as his guide. With his current history, who knows where he would have taken him. However, Simmons’ expectations fell from their awful pedestal as hours went by.

First, they went to a park. Dexter was sure it was a shortcut, but they ended up taking more time than expected. (Simmons should have realized Dexter knew as much about this city as he did: nothing, but he completely missed it, mistake he swore he wouldn’t make again). Then he had the brilliant idea of going to a store and ‘borrowing’ a shopping cart—the same way he ‘borrowed’ the hoodie—so he could ride it like a wheelchair. He even tricked Simmons into carrying him. Or perhaps he didn’t want another argument; perhaps he wanted to test this absurdity limits; perhaps he thought it was a legit good idea.

Dexter took him to an arcade. Simmons hadn’t been in one since he was a child, and it really brought up some good memories. They spent a couple of hours in there, between videogames in which Simmons was too good to be legal and pool tables in which Dexter was too good to be legal, until Dexter got hungry and they ended up in a burger joint.

Simmons felt as relieved as bewildered. That was it? That was the ‘something stupid’ he feared so much? A stolen shopping cart and a day in the arcade? It… didn’t make sense. And it didn’t make sense that he was feeling slightly disappointed.

Then, when they finished their dinner, Dexter took a deep breath, glanced over at his phone, said, “I think it’s time,” and began to drag Simmons away once again. The shopping cart had been long lost and presumably stolen in an alley next to the arcade.

And that was the situation they were in now: at night, all of Simmons’ suspicions fulfilled. He was leaning his back on a wall, looking for anybody who could pass by as Dexter sneaked in a high school’s pool.

“This is a bad idea,” he was repeating, again and again, looking at both sides from time to time.

Dexter, who was standing on some boxes they had found in a nearby dumpster, tried to give himself a boost to slip through the open high window, but it seemed he didn’t have enough strength. “Stop it,” he growled due to the effort. He had already thrown his backpack inside, and he wasn’t going to back away.

“A really bad idea.”

“Or keep going,” he said when he had managed to stick a leg inside, “maybe I will listen to you eventually, but don’t count on it.”

Finally, he managed to sneak in, and due to the howl and the pained moan that followed, it came to Simmons that there were no brackets at the other side.

“Ugh, I think I won’t do this ever in my life, too much work,” he heard him mumbling. “Dick, hurry, jump in!”

Simmons took a last look to make sure there was nobody before climbing the rustled up and unsteady ladder and slipping through the window. While he had it much easier than Dexter, the fall was not that graceful. He swore under his breath when he let himself down and landed on cold floor. Dexter helped him up, and they both turned around to see the large water pit.

The only light breaking in, coming from the windows they had used as an entrance and the glass of the ceiling, was reflected in the water and gave it an astounding blue glow, the golden moon trembling in the surface. The effect was even better in the walls, where the waves of the water quivered. Dexter seemed quite satisfied with both hands on his hips. He looked like he was proud of a well-done work.

“Well,” Simmons said after a few seconds, his voice echoing, “now what?”

Dexter’s frown was a line when he looked at him. His eyes gleamed in there, and Simmons wondered if his, green and clearer, did the same. “Now what?” he repeated. He gestured to the whole room. “What do you think?”

Simmons opened his eyes wide and looked repeatedly at the pool and at Dexter, over and over, until his mouth managed to form the adequate words, “No fucking way.”

Dexter nodded slowly. “Yes fucking way.”

He got rid of his sandals and didn’t think twice before running and jumping in the water, with a loud ‘woohoo’ and an even louder splash. Simmons tensed, clenched his teeth and looked around like a startled cat, fearing they might have warned someone. When Dexter got out the surface, he swam to the edge of the pool and crossed his arms on the floor, resting his head on top of them.

“Don’t overthink it,” he told him. “Just leap in. The water’s them.” And to prove his point his splashed water towards Simmons—he was far enough, though.

“I’m fine here, thanks.”

“Bummer,” he mumbled as he struggled to keep himself above water while taking off the flowers shirt and throwing it away somewhere far. “What, you don’t know how to swim?”

Simmons frowned, almost insulted. “Of course I do.” He took off his shoes and walked to the edge. Dexter was thrilled, and finally disillusioned when the only thing he did was folding up the cuff of his jeans and sitting down to stick only his feet in the water.

He scoffed and swam away. “Whatever, man.”

He vanished underwater. Simmons sighed, rocking his feet and finally appreciating the remaining silence framed by the echo of their voices. Why was he still here? Because, well, it was not like he was mad at Dexter or something; being with him was a mixture of two different feelings: one minute he was having an awesome time, the other he wanted to leave. Barely a minute ago, before sneaking in, he was wondering whether he would be a bad person if he ran away and left Dexter by his own, and then he found himself unable to stop as he climbed the wall. It was so weird, and at the same time, it was so… exciting, seeing how far he could get, seeing where was his limit, seeing how much he could hang on with his hand on the fire.

His train of thoughts suddenly derailed when he felt something grabbing his ankle and dragging him down. He barely had time to shriek before there was nothing but water all around him.

The first thing he heard when he came out, besides his coughs and gasps, was Dexter roaring with laughter. Simmons swore he had never seen anyone laughing that hard; Dexter had to put a hand on the ledge not to drown. Simmons, slack-jawed, trying to catch his breath, and barely able to see with the drops of water in his glasses, grabbed the same ledge so hard his knuckles turned white.

“Fuck you!” he shouted. If they hadn’t made a scene before, now they might as well have heard him at Caltech.

“Ow, don’t be like that,” Dexter giggled as he splattered water to him. Simmons did the same, with more aggressiveness. Well, at least he was wearing a flannel shirt, and not the sweaters he usually wore.

“I hate wearing soaked clothes,” he snarled. On the other hand, jeans were a bad choice. “How can you like this?”

Dexter laughed again, and as he swam away he opened his arms wide as much as he could. “I’m from Hawaii, man,” he said. “Water is my oxygen.”

“You would die, so go ahead and breath in.”

He had the great idea of pushing his head down the water when Dexter was just about to speak, and soon he came out, violently coughing and blindly reaching for the ledge to support himself as he tried to throw up all the water he had swallowed down. It was Simmons’ turn to laugh. He couldn’t help it, even if it was out of revenge, the sight was just too damn hilarious not to laugh. Still, he tried to do something and pat his wide back until Dexter collapsed in the cool damp water like a puppet whose strings had been cut. His breath was faltering and he was still coughing weakly.

“We almost down each other,” he said, his voice barely a broken thread. “We’re even now.”

Simmons chuckled and crossed his arms on the ledge, taking on the same posture as Dexter. “In your dreams,” he hummed. “You still owe me fifteen bucks, buddy.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god this took longer than expected, but since i'm moving out and starting college and struggling with the social anxiety that comes with it i can't write as much as i would like... buuut hopefully i will get my shit together soon, because i really REALLY want to finish this

**Author's Note:**

> i actually outlined the plot for once and i like the idea so luckily i won't drop out as i always do, yay  
> also bless google maps because my spanish ass didn't know where california was


End file.
